Wednesday, July 12, 2017

A Good Man

He
sat his five year old son in the middle of the boat along with
Queenie, a yellow Labrador, and poled them into the marsh. After
pushing the boat into the bullrushes he stepped out in his waders,
grabbed a little stool made from a 2x4 with a piece of plywood nailed
on top and pushed it into the mud to sit on. He was only a few feet
from the boat, watching out over the boy and the decoys and occasionally
whispered, “...quiet now, here they come.” The boy
watched fascinated when the ducks appeared overhead and his father
rose with shotgun and dropped a duck or two into the decoys. “You
got 'em, Dad!” The big splash of Queenie hitting the water was
exciting and the boy stared wide-eyed as she returned with the prize.
“She got it, Dad, Queenie's got it!” Laughter followed a shaking
Labrador retriever, the boy held a duck with shivering hands while
the man grasped the boys shoulder as if the boy had done the
shooting.

Often
cold and wet, sometimes bored, the boy couldn't get enough of hunting
with his father. And his father seldom went without his son. As time
went by he taught the boy to shoot, the dogs changed from a range of
retrievers and spaniels, and they hunted the marshes and upland as
partners – or so the man made it seem. And they fished the rivers
and lakes, often with Mom and Sis. Unforgettable, it may
have been for recreation, it may have been for fun, it may have been
for spending time together. There's no way to measure the
appreciation and lessons that were being instilled.

He
came from a large family, that man, and hunting and fishing were
important sources of food. Still, he took his game fairly, over a
dog, wing shooting. That's style. And he probably had many
opportunities to cheat – maybe a bird or trout over the limit –
but that wouldn't occur to him. That's class.

He
fished for trout, walleye, pike, and panfish to supply suppers, but
dawn would often find him rowing along the lily pads tossing big
Jitterbugs and Crazy Crawlers with an old South Bend casting reel. He
loved the explosive surface strikes of bass and it was all sport for
him. He taught the boy casting and how to thumb a spinning spool of
braided line with just enough pressure to avoid a backlash, and that
took patience, lots of it!

He
hunted and fished when he could and worked hard making a home for his
family. There wasn't much time for reading the outdoor magazines, but
he was the kind of man those writers wrote about. He served in WWII
but never bragged or boasted about himself, though he would sure talk
about his family, his friends, and his ever present beloved canine companions.

There's
no stopping time, and he walked the woods with his spaniel until he
just couldn't, anymore. So he stayed home caring for his lawn and
flowers, and helping the neighbors. In his cupboard he had a bowl
full of his neighbors house keys. They all trusted him to watch their
homes when they were away. All of them. He and his springer spaniel
Otis were known all over town. He was the kindest man I've ever met.
Even in his last hours his eyes still twinkled and he managed a
smile. A son's hero.

Born
the first day of spring 90 years ago, Dad passed last Monday. God
bless. Rest in peace.

About Me

Lucky enough to be raised by an outdoorsman father, I've been messing around with dogs, guns, fishing rods, canoes, tents, snowshoes, etc., my entire life. And it's not over yet. I like good bourbon, good books, and honest, genuine folks. Good fishing and happy hunting to you. -- Al Ranfranz